“It will take only a minute if we go to the church,” he answered.  “It is irregular to hear your confession outside of the proper place, unless in case of illness.”

“Then let us go,” she said, “and hurry.”

They entered the church, and she knelt on the penitent’s side of the confessional.  Later she told all that had happened.

“What troubles you?” asked the priest.  “Have you been to confession of late?”

“Three years ago,” and she shuddered, “I was to confession.  It was before I married him, never since.  Yes, yes, I ought to be known to you.  Listen now, for there isn’t very much time.”  He bent his head and said:  “I am listening.”

She went on without taking breath.  “They are going to murder you.  I heard it, for I was in the secret.  I consented to summon you, but I could not.  They charged that you were in the company’s pay and working against the men.  One of them will come to-night and ask you to go on a sick-call.  They intend to shoot you at the bridge over Mud Run.  I had to warn you to prepare.  I could not see you killed without—­without a prayer.  It is too cruel.  Do what you can for yourself.  That’s all I can say.”

“It is very simple,” said the priest.  “I need not go.”

“Then they will know that I told you,” she answered breathlessly.  Her eyes showed her fright.

“You are right,” said the priest.  “I fear that it would violate the Seal if I refused to go.”

“Yes,” she said, “and he would know at once that I had told, and he—­he suspects me already.  He may have followed me, for I refused to call you.  If he knows I am here he will be sure I confessed to you.  I am not ready to die—­and he would kill me.”

“Then do not trouble your mind about it any more.  God will take care of me,” said the priest.  “Finish your confession.”

In ten minutes she had left.  The priest was alone with himself, and his duty.  Through the open door of the church he saw Slevski—­and he knew that the woman had been followed.

He sat for a long time where he was, staring straight ahead with wide open eyes, the lashes of which never once stirred.  Then he went back to the house and mechanically, almost, picked up his breviary and finished his daily office.  He laid the book down on the arm of his chair, went to his desk and wrote a few lines, sealed them in an envelope and left it addressed on the blotter.  He was outwardly calm, but his face was gray as ashes.  His eyes fell upon the crucifix above his desk and he gave way in an instant, dropping on his knees before it.  The prayer that came out of his white lips was hoarse and whispering: 

“Oh, Crucified Lord, I can not, I can not do it.  I am young.  Have pity on me.  I am not strong enough to be so like You.”

Then he began to doubt if the Seal would really be broken if he did not go.  Perhaps Slevski had not suspected his wife at all—­but had the priest not seen him outside the church?